Dona nobis beatitas Part II Chapter 8/11
Title: Dona nobis beatitas Part II
Author: katherine_b
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor still has a lot to learn.
Chapter 8
The Doctor is still sulking when they leave the pub, the completed sketch of Jack safe in Donna's pocket. Donna knows the Doctor would only be worse if she accused him of being so childish though, so she remains silent, almost wishing she hadn’t given in to the temptation to bring him down a peg or two. Still, she can’t deny that it was rather entertaining.
They watch Jack and Martha heading down the street, the man trying to urge the young doctor to let him escort her home with all sorts of lurid tales about the dangers lurking around every corner, and Donna chuckles as Martha suggests that Jack might be the greatest danger of all.
“He’s incorrigible,” she declares, and the Doctor rolls his eyes and nods.
“Always has been,” he admits. “Ever since I first met him. He flirted with Rose then and has gone on and flirted with every other woman - and most of the men! - who have crossed his path since.”
Donna can’t help thinking that that explains a lot.
Then he turns to face her, a questioning look in his eyes. “That picture in the Vault,” he begins, “was that really him and you were just stirring?”
She has to laugh at the wary way he asks the question. “No,” she assures him. “At least,” she adds honestly, “not specifically. Maybe a bit, but really I just knew there were people there. So one of them would be you, one him, one Martha - you know.”
“Right.” The Doctor’s face relaxes and his eyes twinkle, just visible in the dim light. He nudges her gently. “Glad you didn’t say that to Jack.”
Smiling, she takes his hand, nodding at the TARDIS. “Shall we?”
“Actually,” he steps away, down the street a bit, in the same direction she saw the other version of himself heading when they were going into the pub, “come this way for a moment.”
It’s clear they are heading in the direction of the art supply shop, but Donna can’t help wondering just what the Doctor has in mind. He stops in front of the window, gazing at the pictures. Donna glances from the images of the Ood, Vespiform and the Hath to the alien standing beside her.
Her fingers itch to start sketching him, from the front this time. For some reason, those charcoals she knows the TARDIS provided seem to call to her. Although there are other images floating around in her mind when she thinks about him that don’t seem to suit this particular face and body at all -
“Donna?”
The Doctor’s voice penetrates her thoughts and she blinks, focusing to find him looking at her with a concerned expression on his face.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sorry.” She tries to laugh it off, and when that doesn’t help, squeezes his fingers. “Just my artistic side taking over.”
He smiles a little, rolling his eyes. “I suppose I’ll just have to grin and bear it.”
“It’d be nice,” she teases, before nodding at the window. “So what are we doing here then?”
“We-ell,” he slides a hand through his hair in a gesture that all but screams to her that he’s worrying about something, “it’s nothing really. Just thought you might like to have a look.”
“A look?” she asks, still mystified.
“Mmm.”
Donna gazes at the pictures - although she has to avert her eyes from the image of a devastated London that she can just make out, as the thought of what happened in that weird non-world still gives her nightmares - and then back at the man beside her.
And then, as she sees the way his eyes are travelling from her to the pictures and down the street towards the pub, she knows what’s going through his mind.
For some inexplicable reason, this daft, amazing, dazzling, impossible man has decided that, having had a glimpse of normal life with Martha and Jack, she might be having second thoughts.
Silly Martian.
“Doctor,” she murmurs, tightening her hold on his fingers, and when he looks down at her again, his anxiety that she might somehow have changed her mind evident on his face, she nods at the TARDIS, “let’s go home.”
* * *
Donna frowns and rubs out a line that looks wrong, drawing it in again at a different angle. Pulling back so that she can have a better overview of the picture, she nods in satisfaction and is about to keep going when there is a clinking of china in the doorway.
Looking up, she smiles as the Doctor walks into the living room and sets the tray down on the table before coming around to sit beside her on the couch. Pouring the tea, he hands her a cup and then picks up his own before peering at her work, which she obligingly places on his lap so he can have a better look.
“Interesting,” he says in a voice of strained politeness and she grins.
“Yup. Also upside down.”
“Ah.” He casts a sideways glance of mild embarrassment at her as he turns the sketching board around. She waits as he examines the picture, which so far consists of the background and only the faintest sketch of the face in the middle. Still, there’s enough for the subject to be recognisable. He takes in every detail before looking back at her. “This,” he says slowly, “isn’t Jack.”
“Give the man a cigar,” Donna teases. “Next thing, you’ll be telling me you know who it actually is.”
He glances at her again out of the corner of his eye, and she can’t quite read his expression. “It’s me,” he offers. “Isn’t it?”
“The original you,” she agrees. “What do you think?”
He arches an eyebrow at her. “In charcoal?” he asks, reaching forward to pick up one of the sticks of black in the basket on the table in front of them, briefly rolling the object between his finger and thumb before rubbing his fingers together to wipe away the discolouration on his skin.
“Somehow,” she studies her drawing, trying to imagine how it will look when it’s finished, “this version of you just seems to suit black and white.”
There’s a small half-smile on his face. “Is this the first of a series then?” he asks quietly, but with obvious curiosity.
“I think it might be.” She tilts her head to the side, flipping through images of the different faces of the Doctor in her mind. “It would be interesting.”
“It would also be quite a feat,” the Doctor suggests, handing back the picture. “I mean, it’s not as if I pay that much attention to my current face. Well,” he adds, fiddling with his tie as a rather smug expression crosses his features, “not unless I’m as ravishingly good-looking as I happen to be in this body.”
“Modest, too,” Donna puts in, rolling her eyes, as she nudges him with her elbow. “But,” she goes on before he can do more than look insulted, “I think the TARDIS is doing her bit to help with them.”
The mock-annoyance on the man’s face, caused by her teasing, fades and he lifts his arm and passes it over her head to run along the back of the couch, patting the cushions with obvious affection.
“Probably,” he admits.
Donna smiles, but the movement of the couch caused by the Doctor being beside her has cast a slight shadow over the picture and shown her an error that she had been unaware of before. Putting down her tea, she erases a line and carefully redraws it, shading slightly to get the texture on the signet ring that she wants.
She has to admit that the light isn’t quite as good in here as it would be in that lovely room the TARDIS put next to her bedroom. She will almost certainly have to take this picture in there before applying the charcoal to make sure she has everything right. But she can’t bear the thought of shutting herself away in there when the Doctor clearly (and understandably) prefers to sit in here.
The TARDIS has obviously made the connection, too, because she has cleared a corner of the massive sideboard (which is full to the brim with bits and pieces that the Doctor has been collecting for millennia) for a small selection of Donna’s art materials. In addition, there is a new door in the room that leads directly into Donna’s bedroom.
If Donna didn’t already adore the TARDIS, she definitely does now.
“Did I really look that old?” the Doctor demands at this point. “I mean - honestly?”
Donna shoots him a withering glare. “At least let me finish before you comment.”
“But Donna,” there’s a hint of a whine in his voice, “you can’t make me look like an old man!”
“You were an old man,” she takes a degree of pleasure in pointing out, “and,” she adds with a grin, “behind that baby-faced facade of yours, you still are.”
He pouts - there’s no other word for it - and turns away from her so abruptly that she can’t help regretting having spoken so hastily. As she glances at him out of the corner of her eye, she can’t help feeling that, although she’s well aware of actual his age, he looks more like a sulky child at this moment than anything else.
Unable to think of an immediate way to bring him out of his gloom, she returns to her work. Eventually she has no doubt he will shake himself out of it, perhaps go off and find something else to do, and come back happier, or at least distracted.
It’s as she’s working on the shading of the panama hat she has placed in that version of the Doctor’s hand that she suddenly feels light breath against her cheek and glances over to find the current incarnation of the Doctor peering over her shoulder once more.
“The peak of the hat wasn’t that tall,” he begins in a complaining tone, and all her sympathy vanishes in an instant.
“Doctor!” She glares at him. This was one side-effect of having him with her that she hadn’t considered. “When it’s finished,” she says with exaggerated patience, “then you may comment to your hearts’ content. But until then,” she waves her pencil at him, “shush!”
He opens his mouth again, but at the warning look she shoots in his direction, obediently closes his lips and sinks back away from her into the corner of the couch.
She can’t help missing the light pressure of his body against hers, but it’s clear from the expression on his face that the enforced silence rather than the distance between them is the main thing causing him trouble.
To further the torment, she simply sits and watches him, her pencil idle in her fingers. The irritation on his face grows in accordance with her evident amusement.
“Can I at least talk?” he exclaims at last. “About other things anyway.”
“Well, it would probably cause you to spontaneously combust if you couldn’t - ” she admits.
“Hey!”
“So, yes,” she allows. “Just as long as you only expect me to listen as much as I ever did. And not,” she adds as his eyes slide down to her paper, “about anything I’m still working on. They do change, you know. These pictures. In fact, no, you have no idea how much!”
He groans and runs his fingers through his hair, muttering something that sounds very like ‘temperamental artist’. She decides, for his sake and just this once, to ignore him.
She tries to work again, but can almost feel his eyes on her and the drawing slowly taking shape beneath her pencil. Finally, and with a groan, she looks up again.
“Well?” she demands. “What is it?”
His eyes are fixed on her page, looking at the walking cane, the pipe, the half-moon glasses, the signet ring and the early edition sonic screwdriver that litter the page around half-drawn sketches of the Celestian Toymaker, a Cyberman head, the eye-stalk of a Dalek, the Hand of Omega and so many others that surround the half-drawn head and shoulders of the original Doctor.
Finally, when he looks up at her again, there’s something unreadable in the brown depths of his gaze.
“Can I show you something?” he asks with an audible sigh, and there’s pain on his face that stops her from teasing him.
Instead, nervousness starts to twitch inside her stomach, like fledgling butterflies trying to take flight. She puts aside her work, wipes her fingers on the apron she wears to protect her clothes, and then takes his hand.
Next Part
Author: katherine_b
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor still has a lot to learn.
Chapter 8
The Doctor is still sulking when they leave the pub, the completed sketch of Jack safe in Donna's pocket. Donna knows the Doctor would only be worse if she accused him of being so childish though, so she remains silent, almost wishing she hadn’t given in to the temptation to bring him down a peg or two. Still, she can’t deny that it was rather entertaining.
They watch Jack and Martha heading down the street, the man trying to urge the young doctor to let him escort her home with all sorts of lurid tales about the dangers lurking around every corner, and Donna chuckles as Martha suggests that Jack might be the greatest danger of all.
“He’s incorrigible,” she declares, and the Doctor rolls his eyes and nods.
“Always has been,” he admits. “Ever since I first met him. He flirted with Rose then and has gone on and flirted with every other woman - and most of the men! - who have crossed his path since.”
Donna can’t help thinking that that explains a lot.
Then he turns to face her, a questioning look in his eyes. “That picture in the Vault,” he begins, “was that really him and you were just stirring?”
She has to laugh at the wary way he asks the question. “No,” she assures him. “At least,” she adds honestly, “not specifically. Maybe a bit, but really I just knew there were people there. So one of them would be you, one him, one Martha - you know.”
“Right.” The Doctor’s face relaxes and his eyes twinkle, just visible in the dim light. He nudges her gently. “Glad you didn’t say that to Jack.”
Smiling, she takes his hand, nodding at the TARDIS. “Shall we?”
“Actually,” he steps away, down the street a bit, in the same direction she saw the other version of himself heading when they were going into the pub, “come this way for a moment.”
It’s clear they are heading in the direction of the art supply shop, but Donna can’t help wondering just what the Doctor has in mind. He stops in front of the window, gazing at the pictures. Donna glances from the images of the Ood, Vespiform and the Hath to the alien standing beside her.
Her fingers itch to start sketching him, from the front this time. For some reason, those charcoals she knows the TARDIS provided seem to call to her. Although there are other images floating around in her mind when she thinks about him that don’t seem to suit this particular face and body at all -
“Donna?”
The Doctor’s voice penetrates her thoughts and she blinks, focusing to find him looking at her with a concerned expression on his face.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sorry.” She tries to laugh it off, and when that doesn’t help, squeezes his fingers. “Just my artistic side taking over.”
He smiles a little, rolling his eyes. “I suppose I’ll just have to grin and bear it.”
“It’d be nice,” she teases, before nodding at the window. “So what are we doing here then?”
“We-ell,” he slides a hand through his hair in a gesture that all but screams to her that he’s worrying about something, “it’s nothing really. Just thought you might like to have a look.”
“A look?” she asks, still mystified.
“Mmm.”
Donna gazes at the pictures - although she has to avert her eyes from the image of a devastated London that she can just make out, as the thought of what happened in that weird non-world still gives her nightmares - and then back at the man beside her.
And then, as she sees the way his eyes are travelling from her to the pictures and down the street towards the pub, she knows what’s going through his mind.
For some inexplicable reason, this daft, amazing, dazzling, impossible man has decided that, having had a glimpse of normal life with Martha and Jack, she might be having second thoughts.
Silly Martian.
“Doctor,” she murmurs, tightening her hold on his fingers, and when he looks down at her again, his anxiety that she might somehow have changed her mind evident on his face, she nods at the TARDIS, “let’s go home.”
* * *
Donna frowns and rubs out a line that looks wrong, drawing it in again at a different angle. Pulling back so that she can have a better overview of the picture, she nods in satisfaction and is about to keep going when there is a clinking of china in the doorway.
Looking up, she smiles as the Doctor walks into the living room and sets the tray down on the table before coming around to sit beside her on the couch. Pouring the tea, he hands her a cup and then picks up his own before peering at her work, which she obligingly places on his lap so he can have a better look.
“Interesting,” he says in a voice of strained politeness and she grins.
“Yup. Also upside down.”
“Ah.” He casts a sideways glance of mild embarrassment at her as he turns the sketching board around. She waits as he examines the picture, which so far consists of the background and only the faintest sketch of the face in the middle. Still, there’s enough for the subject to be recognisable. He takes in every detail before looking back at her. “This,” he says slowly, “isn’t Jack.”
“Give the man a cigar,” Donna teases. “Next thing, you’ll be telling me you know who it actually is.”
He glances at her again out of the corner of his eye, and she can’t quite read his expression. “It’s me,” he offers. “Isn’t it?”
“The original you,” she agrees. “What do you think?”
He arches an eyebrow at her. “In charcoal?” he asks, reaching forward to pick up one of the sticks of black in the basket on the table in front of them, briefly rolling the object between his finger and thumb before rubbing his fingers together to wipe away the discolouration on his skin.
“Somehow,” she studies her drawing, trying to imagine how it will look when it’s finished, “this version of you just seems to suit black and white.”
There’s a small half-smile on his face. “Is this the first of a series then?” he asks quietly, but with obvious curiosity.
“I think it might be.” She tilts her head to the side, flipping through images of the different faces of the Doctor in her mind. “It would be interesting.”
“It would also be quite a feat,” the Doctor suggests, handing back the picture. “I mean, it’s not as if I pay that much attention to my current face. Well,” he adds, fiddling with his tie as a rather smug expression crosses his features, “not unless I’m as ravishingly good-looking as I happen to be in this body.”
“Modest, too,” Donna puts in, rolling her eyes, as she nudges him with her elbow. “But,” she goes on before he can do more than look insulted, “I think the TARDIS is doing her bit to help with them.”
The mock-annoyance on the man’s face, caused by her teasing, fades and he lifts his arm and passes it over her head to run along the back of the couch, patting the cushions with obvious affection.
“Probably,” he admits.
Donna smiles, but the movement of the couch caused by the Doctor being beside her has cast a slight shadow over the picture and shown her an error that she had been unaware of before. Putting down her tea, she erases a line and carefully redraws it, shading slightly to get the texture on the signet ring that she wants.
She has to admit that the light isn’t quite as good in here as it would be in that lovely room the TARDIS put next to her bedroom. She will almost certainly have to take this picture in there before applying the charcoal to make sure she has everything right. But she can’t bear the thought of shutting herself away in there when the Doctor clearly (and understandably) prefers to sit in here.
The TARDIS has obviously made the connection, too, because she has cleared a corner of the massive sideboard (which is full to the brim with bits and pieces that the Doctor has been collecting for millennia) for a small selection of Donna’s art materials. In addition, there is a new door in the room that leads directly into Donna’s bedroom.
If Donna didn’t already adore the TARDIS, she definitely does now.
“Did I really look that old?” the Doctor demands at this point. “I mean - honestly?”
Donna shoots him a withering glare. “At least let me finish before you comment.”
“But Donna,” there’s a hint of a whine in his voice, “you can’t make me look like an old man!”
“You were an old man,” she takes a degree of pleasure in pointing out, “and,” she adds with a grin, “behind that baby-faced facade of yours, you still are.”
He pouts - there’s no other word for it - and turns away from her so abruptly that she can’t help regretting having spoken so hastily. As she glances at him out of the corner of her eye, she can’t help feeling that, although she’s well aware of actual his age, he looks more like a sulky child at this moment than anything else.
Unable to think of an immediate way to bring him out of his gloom, she returns to her work. Eventually she has no doubt he will shake himself out of it, perhaps go off and find something else to do, and come back happier, or at least distracted.
It’s as she’s working on the shading of the panama hat she has placed in that version of the Doctor’s hand that she suddenly feels light breath against her cheek and glances over to find the current incarnation of the Doctor peering over her shoulder once more.
“The peak of the hat wasn’t that tall,” he begins in a complaining tone, and all her sympathy vanishes in an instant.
“Doctor!” She glares at him. This was one side-effect of having him with her that she hadn’t considered. “When it’s finished,” she says with exaggerated patience, “then you may comment to your hearts’ content. But until then,” she waves her pencil at him, “shush!”
He opens his mouth again, but at the warning look she shoots in his direction, obediently closes his lips and sinks back away from her into the corner of the couch.
She can’t help missing the light pressure of his body against hers, but it’s clear from the expression on his face that the enforced silence rather than the distance between them is the main thing causing him trouble.
To further the torment, she simply sits and watches him, her pencil idle in her fingers. The irritation on his face grows in accordance with her evident amusement.
“Can I at least talk?” he exclaims at last. “About other things anyway.”
“Well, it would probably cause you to spontaneously combust if you couldn’t - ” she admits.
“Hey!”
“So, yes,” she allows. “Just as long as you only expect me to listen as much as I ever did. And not,” she adds as his eyes slide down to her paper, “about anything I’m still working on. They do change, you know. These pictures. In fact, no, you have no idea how much!”
He groans and runs his fingers through his hair, muttering something that sounds very like ‘temperamental artist’. She decides, for his sake and just this once, to ignore him.
She tries to work again, but can almost feel his eyes on her and the drawing slowly taking shape beneath her pencil. Finally, and with a groan, she looks up again.
“Well?” she demands. “What is it?”
His eyes are fixed on her page, looking at the walking cane, the pipe, the half-moon glasses, the signet ring and the early edition sonic screwdriver that litter the page around half-drawn sketches of the Celestian Toymaker, a Cyberman head, the eye-stalk of a Dalek, the Hand of Omega and so many others that surround the half-drawn head and shoulders of the original Doctor.
Finally, when he looks up at her again, there’s something unreadable in the brown depths of his gaze.
“Can I show you something?” he asks with an audible sigh, and there’s pain on his face that stops her from teasing him.
Instead, nervousness starts to twitch inside her stomach, like fledgling butterflies trying to take flight. She puts aside her work, wipes her fingers on the apron she wears to protect her clothes, and then takes his hand.
Next Part